


T'es Beau, C'est Vrai

by xsilverdreamsx



Series: A Rose in Name [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossdressing, Drag!Arthur, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night that Eames arrives in Paris for the proposed inception job, he finds himself drawn to a drag singer, who seems both familiar yet a mystery to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	T'es Beau, C'est Vrai

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaning out my WIP folder! This fic is sort of a prequel to [Of Strawberries and Whiskey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/290959) , which was ~inspired by [JGL’s Halloween costume](http://i1003.photobucket.com/albums/af158/maybe77_photo/HitRECord%20on%20Halloween%20103111/P1010474.jpg) a while back (Photo credit to maybe77).
> 
> I used the pronoun “she” to indicate the character who’s in drag, so if that’s not your thing, you might want to skip this.
> 
> Thanks to @adamsheroin for the French translations; and to my patient betas - clocks and dansetheblues - for putting with the constant revisions and stopping me from burning this fic several times.♥

Once the job – a simple extraction complicated by a nervous architect - is wrapped up, Eames is finally ready for a break. The past six months have been filled with him taking on several jobs back to back - traveling across the continent, forging his way through the dreams of the CEOs, politicians and even at one time, a pastry chef – with barely any time for him to enjoy the profits. 

His mother calls him while he’s at the airport and asks him if he’s found a nice girl to settle down with yet, but Eames changes the subject, telling her that he’s left a bit of money in the family account for her, _yes mother, we had an early bonus this year, I love you too, will be home for Christmas_ , then he’s off to Pattaya for a little sun.

When the call comes in from an old university chum, Eames is lying facedown on the mat in his hotel room, the knots in his shoulders being kneaded and massaged by a pair of strong hands belonging to a slender young man with a shy smile and a delectable ass.

Eames fumbles for the phone, and answers it.

“I need your expertise.”

“I’m on a holiday.”

“I’ll offer you enough to be on a holiday for a long time.”

“I don’t know, Yusuf… I’m rather enjoying the view here.” Eames turns his head and winks at the young man, who ducks his head shyly and continues massaging Eames’ back, moving slick, slender fingers against the tense muscles.

“We know you’ll be bored sitting in one place for too long. Drop by Mombasa for a few days. Rani has promised to make your favourite curry.”

“That’s terribly low of you, old friend. Is it lamb curry? Not that I’m not looking forward to seeing your lovely sister, of course.”

Eames hears Yusuf chuckling on the other end. “See you in two days,” he adds, before hanging up.

The quiet tap on his shoulder indicates that his back is done and to turn over. Eames flops over onto his back and waggles his eyebrows at the young man, who is visibly impressed at the sight of Eames’ very large and very erect cock. The rest of the session is well-spent after that.

Mombasa is as hot as ever, humidity and heat mixing together and sticking to him, to his clothes. Yusuf has a spare room in his place for Eames, and as promised, the lamb curry that his sister has sent over. They talk over curry and rice and sweet milk tea and the next day; Eames gets to work, helping Yusuf test his Somnacin.

He’s barely there for a day when Cobb tracks him down.

At first glance, Cobb looks the same as ever, yet, as he starts to speak, Eames can sense there’s something different now. He looks more haunted, tired, and he has the nervous twitch of a man who lingers between hope and death, unsure of where the gauntlet will fall.

He has heard whispers of Cobb’s past, of course, but he doesn’t care. It’s not his place to judge, not when he has his own skeletons in the closet to keep locked away.

Cobb talks; Eames listens. Desperation well-hidden beneath the quiet, scholarly voice, Cobb reveals that he wants to try inception. It’s not possible, Eames tells him, but Cobb is insistent, the shake in his voice betraying his need. He’s putting together a team, he says, one that can pull this off.

Only the best, he says. No, they’re not using Nash (Eames shakes his head when he discovers Nash messed up Cobb’s last job as well). They’re going with another architect, green but apparently brilliant.

Oh, and of course, there’s Arthur.

“You're still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” Eames has never met Arthur, but the various phone calls and emails they had during their last job had left him with an unpleasant impression of the man.

“Ah, but he’s one of the best.”

Eames snorts. He had found that Arthur lacked imagination, being unappreciative of Eames’ suggestions then.

Their conversation is interrupted when Eames casually points out the tail from Cobol Engineering, who has been not-so-subtly spying from the bar. As Eames attempts to distract the stranger, Cobb makes his escape.

Later, as Eames casually waits for Cobb at their agreed meeting spot, he thinks back to their conversation. He feels a thrill running through his veins, something that hasn’t happened in a while.

 _Inception_.

It’s risky, it’s insane, but it’s brilliant.

****

* * *

Eames convinces Cobb to bring on Yusuf, who is thrilled for a chance to put his new batch of Somnacin to the test. When Yusuf leaves the room, intending to pack his bags for Paris, Rani eyes Cobb suspiciously from the corner of his shop.

She corners Eames later before he leaves. “Take care of my brother,” she tells him in Swahili. “Death snaps at his feet like the devil hound.”

“Is that what you see or what you have heard?” Eames asks in return. Judging from her wince, he knows his accent is atrocious.

“Both,” she answered simply. She looks at him, and a small smile appears on her face. “Have care for who you give your heart to.”

Eames wonders at that, but then Yusuf is calling him and he has to leave. Her words echo in his head later when they’re on the plane.

In Paris, Cobb introduces Ariadne to them over a quick dinner at a quiet little café. Ariadne, Eames finds out, is an architecture student highly recommended by Cobb’s father. She’s intelligent, sharp, has an odd sense of humor and gets along perfectly with Eames.

“I’m surprised Arthur didn’t turn up,” Ariadne remarks to Cobb, who squints and frowns in reply.

“He said he had plans tonight.” He doesn’t offer much more information, and no one asks for more. Sometimes Eames wonders what secrets lie behind Cobb’s eyes, haunted and pained all the time, but he asks no questions, as Cobb answers none.

After the meal, they say goodbye to Cobb, who heads back to the hotel.

Yusuf yawns. “Actually, heading back sounds like a good idea. I might turn in early tonight- ” Eames interrupts him with a scoff.

“Come now, Yusuf, we’re in Paris! Let your hair down, so to speak, and come out for drinks with us,” he says, as Yusuf continues mumbling his excuses.

Eames has all but given up when Ariadne suggests a place, a bar downtown in Le Marais and offers to take them there, while placing her hand on Yusuf’s arm, smiling at him.

Yusuf agrees instantly.

Amused at how quickly Yusuf had responded to her, Eames whispers to Ariadne while they wait for a cab. “Is there a particular reason why you’ve selected Le Marais, Ariadne? We could have quite easily gone down the street to one of the bars.”

Ariadne grins. “Arthur mentioned it to me earlier and I’ve been dying to check out the place. Apparently he’s friends with the owner.”

Ah, Arthur. Eames had almost forgotten about Cobb’s pointman. In the days that Cobb had spent looking for Eames in Mombasa, Ariadne had apparently developed a friendship (if one could be friends with a prickly cactus) with Arthur.

“He said that they have a special theme tonight. We’ll have to wear a costume or at least a mask to get in, of course” she tells them slyly.

Eames winces. “A costume? Ariadne, love, that might be rather difficult to find at this late hour,” he starts to say, but then Ariadne points towards a group of performers nearby.

They’re all wearing Venetian masks.

Eames catches sight of Yusuf raising his eyes towards the sky, looking pained, and chuckles to himself as Ariadne drags them along to intercept the performers.

****

* * *

Eames considers his Venetian half mask that they had bought off the street performers that covers the upper part of his face, with holes for his eyes and nose. It’s probably not the most original idea ever, but he’s looking to have a few drinks and unwind, not win a prize for being the best-dressed.

By the time they arrive at the bar, the place is packed, and almost everyone is either clad in some form of a costume, or wearing a mask. They push their way past several angels, devils and goth vampires and even a Viking, before finally locating the small booth that Ariadne has made reservations for.

Eames excuses himself to find the restroom, while Ariadne tries to flag down a waiter. By the time he returns, Yusuf is back at the table, sitting next to her, and sipping a very colorful drink through a straw.

Eames sits down, and stares at the glass. “What _are_ you drinking, Yusuf?”

“Fruit punch.” Yusuf stirs the ice in the glass with the straw, before taking another sip.

Eames shakes his head sadly. “Yusuf, I’m disappointed in you. One cannot enjoy the night without the accompaniment of alcohol.”

Yusuf snorts at this and turns to Ariadne.”The last time he said that to me, I woke up by the side of a sleeping cow in the back alleys of Mumbai, without my clothes.”

“But you got it all back! With your wallet intact too, all thanks to yours truly,” Eames protests.

“Except for my dignity,” Yusuf retorts, without any heat.

They trade jokes and old stories, drawing Ariadne into their conversation easily. None of them talk of the dreamscape, or about inception. Outside the dreamshare community, one careless remark can easily cost them their lives.

Eventually the music begins to slow down, the volume turned down low as the lights dim. A spotlight is pointed towards the middle of the stage as the host, complete in a ringmaster’s suit with a top hat, steps into focus.

He greets everyone in French, pointing out his favourite costumes from the crowd (the seven foot tall drag queen with a full peacock-plumed headdress gets the most cheers, while the male twins dressed in nothing but loincloths, arms locked around each others’ shoulders receive the most catcalls and cheers all around), before introducing the first performer for the night.

“ _S'il vous plaît bienvenue à la scène, Mademoiselle Rose de Velours!_ ”

At the first few chords from the accordion, the crowd claps, recognising the tune as a voice starts up, singing the first words of the song, and steps into the spotlight.

Eames sits up in his chair immediately.

The singer is dressed in a French maid uniform, with a shoulder-length blond wig and fishnet stockings. The black and white outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. The shiny latex is skin tight, with a row of small white ribbons down in front, while the layers upon layers of white ruffles and lace rustle against each other at each step.

The singer’s face is covered with heavy, white face paint and thick, black eyeliner around the eyes. The look reminds Eames of the mimes that he’s seen on the streets today - except that with the addition of fake, long eyelashes and red painted lips, the singer is seductive rather than comedic.

The minute the singer starts to sing, it’s clear that she is _not_ what she seems to be. Her voice is deep and husky, too low for a woman’s - and even if the squared shoulders and strong jaw line aren’t obvious enough, the complete lack of breasts had tipped Eames off earlier that _Mademoiselle Rose_ was more likely a _Monsieur_ underneath the drag.

Eames is more than fascinated, and watches the entire set without touching his drink. As she steps across the stage, her hand placed across her chest while singing of an unknown lover, of his kindness and tenderness, Eames wonders if anyone could truly be that deeply in love with someone that nothing else could matter. His life has always been about enjoying his pleasures, but he allows himself, for just a few minutes, to wonder about the possibilities of love.

****

* * *

A new performer is now onstage, covered in glitter and sequins while wearing a large pink boa. Eames, however, isn’t paying any attention to the stage, watching as Rose makes her way towards the bar. Mumbling a weak excuse to the others, he leaves Ariadne and Yusuf to enjoy the rest of the show while he pushes his way through the crowd.

When he finally reaches the bar, Rose is already holding a drink in one hand, leaning back against the marbled top. She’s smiling politely up at a tall blond man in a sailor’s costume who is leaning sideways against the bar. He has a beer bottle in one hand, fingers tapping its sides as he lifts it up to his mouth to take a sip, eyes never leaving Rose’s face.

Eames reaches the bar, casually standing on the other side of Rose, before flagging down the bartender. Eames orders a glass of whiskey, neat, before turning around to observe the next performer belting out some dance number onstage.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that the man in the sailor’s outfit has edged closer towards Rose and is now trailing his fingers up and down her arms, leering at her. An annoyed expression flickers across her face briefly and she casually pulls her arm away, letting the man’s fingers slide off. He doesn’t take the hint, and suddenly his hand is circling her wrist, pulling her roughly against him.

“ _Libre-moi tout de suite!_ ,” she hisses at him, struggling to pull away.

Sailor Man bares his teeth at her and grips her wrist tighter. “ _Êtes-vous jouer dur pour obtenir quelque chose? J'aime ça._ ” Before she can reply, he has her pinned against the bar, his hips pressed against hers as he leans closer. Rose swears and twists her head to the side to avoid the kiss, while trying to push him away.

Eames moves, quickly, and his hand lands on the man’s shoulder.

“Perhaps you should listen to her,” Eames says pleasantly. “ _Nous sommes tous des messieurs ici_.”

Eames finds himself being shoved back against the bar as Sailor Man tells him to mind his own business. But before he can react to this, Rose has wrenched her hand out of the man’s grip. She twists his arm behind him in a swift judo move and slams him faced-down onto the polished wood of the bar top.

Eames raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected _that_.

She leans down, and whispers harshly into the man’s ear and twists his arm even further to emphasize her intent. It’s only when he furiously nods, choking out an affirmative response that she releases his arm and takes a step back. She calmly watches as the man scrambles away, looking frightened, pushing past the few people who had stopped to look at what was happening.

Eames looks at Rose intently as she calmly lifts her drink to her lips and sips from it slowly, before putting it back down onto the bar, her fingers circling the rim of the glass casually. To anyone else watching, she seems unaffected by the incident; but Eames catches the whitened knuckles gripping the side of the counter, the slight hitch in breathing, and the tense way she’s holding her shoulders.

“ _Etes-vous bien_?” Eames asks carefully.

She looks up at him, and nods. “I’m fine. Thank you for trying to stop him anyway,” she answers Eames in English. Her voice is deep, like a man’s voice, heavy with traces of an American accent.

Eames switches back to English. “That was very impressive,” he tells her. She lifts her eyebrow at this quizzically.

Eames waves his hand. “The way you threw him. I doubt anyone will be bothering you anymore tonight.” And he’s right. The few men who had been casting glances at Rose before this have disappeared or are shooting her looks of trepidation instead.

Rose sighs and finishes her drink, placing the glass back onto the bar top before turning to him and answering.“Except for you.”

Eames places a hand over his heart dramatically. “Darling, please. I am the _perfect_ gentleman and would never treat a lady with such disrespect.” He completes this with a flourish gesture of a bow.

A strange look crosses over Rose’s face and she peers at Eames, peering at his mask curiously.

“Something wrong?” Eames asks.

“You sound... familiar,” she answers after a brief pause. “Have we met before?”

This time it’s Eames that studies Rose’s features and eyes, before he grins. “An exquisite creature such as yourself would never have been forgotten,” he declares. Rose snorts in response, rolling her eyes.

At the small frown that’s beginning to form on Rose’s face, Eames hurriedly changes the subject. “At least allow me to buy you a new drink.” Eames flags down the bartender and tells him to bring a new glass of whatever Rose had been drinking before. “And you can tell me all about where you picked up that move of yours.”

“A drink for a story? I am not so easy, Mr- ”

“Smith, but you’re welcome to call me John.”

She can tell that the name is fake, but instead of ignoring him or calling him out on it, she smiles in amusement instead, lips curling upwards as a pair of dimples appear.

Eames is charmed. He’s tempted to kiss her there and then but he holds himself back, unwilling to annoy her, and settles for grabbing his drink instead.

****

* * *

One drink leads to another, and then another, as the night wears on. The conversation moves on from her ability to incapacitate persistent gropers (a military background, to Eames’ surprise) to art (Dali is unmatched) and onto a minor debate on philosophy.

He watches as she waves her hands around, emphasizing her point.

“- the concept of dualism-”

“- is flawed,” Eames interrupts her with a rakish smile. “Really, love, I would have thought that the squealing pigs being slaughtered was a clear indication on pain existing in animals.”

“But yet you submit to his theory on the mind and its existence on the metaphysical plane.”

Eames beams. “You’re lovely when you talk philosophy.”

“Is that the fifth glass of whiskey hitting on me or just your boorish charm?”

“Do you always discuss metaphysics with random strangers in bars?”

Rose stares at him, and bursts out laughing.

“You’re impossible.” She’s holding her hand up to her face to hide her mirth.

“I’m very serious. Mostly I’ve ended up meeting utterly vapid people in bars, but here I am, sitting in a gay bar in Paris, talking to someone wearing _latex and net stockings_ , and discussing _Descartes_.” The mask hides most of Eames’ face, but there’s enough sincerity in his voice as he speaks, and he sees Rose’s eyes soften. “You’re incredible, darling, and I would really like to kiss you if I didn’t think you’d break my arm in the process.”

She leans closer towards him, her hands on his knees, and speaks in his ear, with “You can kiss me if you like”, and then her face is close, so very close to Eames’. Her breath is hot on his skin, her eyes wide and nervous and it’s all causing his heart to beat a little faster.

“Are you sure you won’t throw me over the table if I do that?” Eames teases.

Her eyes are heavy, dark, as she holds his gaze. “I promise that you’ll get a chance to do that to me instead.” She licks her lips, leaving no room for doubt as the meaning behind her words.

So Eames kisses her.

The kiss starts out slow. There’s no tongue, just a touch of lips pressed against each other as Eames kisses her once, then pulls back a little before going in for second kiss, his tongue flicking out to lick her bottom lip. Her lips taste almost sweet; as Eames is briefly reminded of strawberries, of whiskey, before she takes charge, long fingers gripped around his neck as they continue to trade kisses, this time faster and more eager than before.

There’s a taste of alcohol mixed with cigarettes as they trade kisses, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths. As Eames parts his legs, Rose slips off her stool and moves her body closer between them and presses herself against him. He lets his hands slip around her waist and holds her in place against him, against his hardening cock, and curses inwardly at the layers of frills and lace and latex that separates them.

“We should take this somewhere.. somewh—mmm —somewhere more private – mmm,” he manages out, in between kisses and is gratified to hear an “alright, yes” as Rose steals one more kiss before reaching for his hand.

She leads Eames to the mezzanine, nodding at the burly bouncer who unhooks the velvet rope and lets them into the V.I.P. section of the bar. The area consists of several booths with large cushioned seats, separated by tall partitions and set back against the wall. They are near enough to the edge of the railings that the occupants can relax and watch the on goings on the dance floor, but far enough that no one can look up and see what they were doing.

Up here, the music and noise isn’t as loud since the speakers are all strategically placed only near the stage, and Eames is briefly grateful that he doesn’t have to yell to make himself heard.

The two of them hurry past the row of booths, which are already filled with several occupants. There’s a group that’s either drunk or asleep - Eames isn’t sure - sprawled across the cushions in the first one. He notices that a few of the other booths are currently occupied by a few couples busy making out. Rose pulls Eames along past all of them, heading for the last booth at the end which is barely lit compared to the others and tucked into a corner, away from prying eyes.

They tumble into it, breathless, giddy with excitement and lust.

Eames lands on the couch first and pulls Rose onto his lap. She follows willingly, straddles him with her legs on both sides of his hips and sinks her hands into his hair, tugging the ends roughly, pulling his head back before leaning down to claim his mouth. They kiss some more, teeth clashing, each trying to take over.

Rose grinds down onto Eames’ cock. The sensation is sudden, almost too much, and a low moan escapes his mouth as she continues to rut against him, her mouth moving across his neck and jaw, sucking and licking at the skin.

He can feel Rose’s own erection pressed against his. Eames slips his hands under her skirts and slides them around to her ass, grabbing onto them to pull her closer to him. Groaning into his mouth, she starts rutting even harder against him, followed by a string of curses and _fuck, yes, so good, so good_.

Eames slides one hand back and reaches in between them and palms her cock. With a low cry, she’s coming, her body stuttering and shaking through her orgasm.

Rose drops her head onto Eames’ shoulder, breathing hard, before pulling herself off him and sliding down to her knees. Her hands land on his zipper, about to pull it down when she pauses briefly, looking up at him. Her makeup is wrecked, with patches of white powder missing from her chin (Eames is guessing that it’s now mostly on his face, but he’s alright with this). Her eyeliner and mascara are mixed in with her sweat and leaves a trail of black down her cheeks; her blond wig is askew, with traces of black hair peeking out from underneath. But the expression in her eyes remain unchanged as she looks up at Eames, as if asking for permission to continue. Eames sucks his breath in sharply, more turned on than ever, and nods furiously.

Rose proceeds to unzip his pants, letting her fingers trail over his erection, covered by his cotton briefs. She leans in, and nuzzles his erection, and then opens her mouth, sucking at the head through the cloth.

“Fuck,” Eames breathes out.

Her slender fingers tugs at the waistband, pulling the briefs down to reveal his cock which is now practically leaking at the tip. Once more, she looks up at Eames coyly, before she presses against the slit with her thumb, sending a jolt of shock and pleasure through him. He gasps at the sensation, before realizing that she’s watching his reaction, _toying_ with him.

Eames lets out a low growl of frustration. “Enough teasi-- ungghhh!!” he cries out as she covers the head with her mouth and slides it down to engulf his cock completely. Sucking, swirling her tongue around the head, she bobs her head up and down repeatedly, and Eames is thinking to himself that if she keeps this up, he’s probably going to end up coming sooner than he’d like.

“Wait, love,” he gasps out, reaching down to tap her on the shoulder gently, indicating for her to stop. He almost regrets this decision instantly when she sucks at the head once more, hard, before pulling off, but he has other ideas that take precedence. “Can I.. can I fuck you? Please?”

Lips swollen, she licks them once and nods.

Eames searches his pockets hurriedly and pulls out a condom and a packet of lube from his wallet and throws them onto the chair. He pulls Rose back onto his lap and kisses her hungrily, slipping two of his fingers into her mouth. She sucks on them, the same way she had sucked his cock, wetting them completely and Eames _wants_.

He pulls out his fingers, and manages to push down the lacy underwear she’s wearing, reaching behind her to massage her perineum, pressing against the bundle of muscles before slipping a finger in, slowly. Moaning, she presses back down, taking his finger in all the way. It’s hot, tight and Eames wants to sink his cock into the heat right now but he doesn’t want to hurt her either.

He pauses to open the packet of lube, smearing them onto his fingers before pushing back in, fucking into her until he feels the muscles loosen a little around his finger, then adds a second one. By this time, she’s practically riding his fingers, pushing herself up and working down onto them, and Eames finds that he can’t wait anymore. He pulls out both fingers and Rose whines in protest.

“Shhh, love, just a moment” Eames reassures her as he tears open the packet, rolling the condom over his cock and groaning at the tight feel of the rubber before slicking himself up with the remaining lube. He holds his cock, guiding it into Rose. Soft gasps and moans escape her mouth as she holds up her voluminous skirt, lowering herself down onto him.

She’s tight, so tight, and Eames is about to come from the aching slowness of it all, and he grips her by the hips and leans up to kiss her. “I’m sorry, I need to, I can’t wait,” he mouths at her lips and pulls her down roughly, and she lets out a loud moan.

He fucks up into her, occasionally lifting her up and slamming her down on his cock as she begs him to move faster, fuck her faster, harder, _oh gods, your cock is so big, yes, yes that’s it_ , and holding up her skirts with one hand and pumping at her own cock with the other. Eames slams up into her one last time, holding himself there, as he comes, followed by her spilling all over her fingers a second time.

For a few seconds, they don’t move, can’t move, except to lean against each other with their foreheads touching, while breathing heavily.

“Wow.” She looks at him and says it again. “Just... wow.”

Eames laughs quietly. “That was amazing.” He leans in and captures her lips in a swift, tender kiss. “ _You_ were amazing.”

She huffs at that, but Eames sees the small curl of a smile on her face that appears for a brief moment, before Eames pulls her hand up towards his face and proceeds to clean her come off her fingers.

“Christ,” she groans, as Eames continues with his filthy display, drawing his lips down over her wrist where some of the come had dripped onto, sucking on the skin hard enough, feeling the urge to leave behind a mark of some sort.

When her fingers are finally clean, he kisses her again, this time with less urgency but with as much tenderness as he can convey. He releases his hold on her and she gingerly pulls herself off him, wincing briefly at the loss.

The silence between them is oddly comfortable, and not at all awkward as they straighten out their clothes and clean themselves up as best as they can.

When they’re done and about the leave the booth, Eames places his hand on Rose’s arm to stall her briefly.

“Will you be here again? Tomorrow night?” He’s always used to treating his brief hook-ups as that, nothing more, but it’s been a long time since any of them have stirred his interest as Rose has.

She smiles at him, and Eames is treated to a flash of dimples deepening her cheek once more. “I doubt we’ll be seeing each other for a while. I’ll be working on- working at a new place,” Rose replies, sounding almost regretful.

Eames realizes that he’s still calling her _Rose_ in his mind.

“Wait,” he says hurriedly. He’s not ready for the night to be over just yet, for his time with this person to end this quickly. “Can I at least have your real name?” He wants to hear it from her own lips.

Bemused, Rose taps his nose playfully with one finger. “Why should I share mine, when you haven’t shared your real name, _John Smith_?”

Eames reaches back for the ribbon that is holding his mask in place, tied around the back of his head. “Alright, I suppose I should reintroduce myself,” he admits while pulling it off, finally revealing himself.

Instead of being shocked, she simply looks at him with an amused expression.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Eames says, pleased. “ _Arthur_.”

This time, the shocked silence lasts several long seconds.

“Well,“ 'Rose' finally says, raising an eyebrow. “I guess I don’t need this skirt anymore.”

****

* * *

Once it’s revealed that there’s no longer any point in them keeping up the charade, Arthur heads towards the direction of the restrooms, leaving strict orders with Eames to meet him down at the bar.

Eames watches as Arthur finally slides into the seat next to him. “So you were aware of who I was the entire time. How did you know?”

Now that he’s washed away the white paint and removed his wig, trading in the frills and laces that had completed his transformation into ‘Rose’ for a pair of long trousers and crisp-looking white shirt, Arthur finally reveals himself to be a handsome young man.

Arthur snorts. “Please, _John Smith_ \- you couldn’t have come up with a better name? - give me a little credit.” He takes a sip of the drink that Eames had ordered for him.

“I’ll have you know that the choice of the false name was purely intentional,” Eames tells him. “Go on, love, you shouldn’t change the subject.”

Sighing, Arthur places the glass down, and begins to explain, “During the Blake job, after you managed to pull off the extraction even though you ignored all of my suggestions, I looked you up. Your past jobs, your history, how you ended up in the dreamshare. When Cobb told me that he was going to bring you onto the team, I had just figured out that you were in Mombasa.

“So that’s how Cobb found me.” Eames glances at Arthur. He’s slightly impressed.

“When Ariadne texted me tonight, she mentioned that you were going to be here too. But I couldn’t find you, no matter how hard I looked from the stage. I realize now that I wouldn’t have seen you anyway, not when you were all wearing masks.

“Once my performance was over, I figured that I would ring Ariadne’s mobile phone and was waiting to get a drink at the bar, but, as you saw, I ended up dealing with a little problem of my own.”

“How fortunate of me to run into you then,” Eames muses, recalling the rather rude and uncouth man whom Arthur had fended off successfully.

“The minute I heard your voice, I recognized who you were right away,” Arthur finishes, and his mouth twitches. “But it didn’t seem like you knew it was me, so I didn’t reveal myself.” He pauses, then tilts his head, giving Eames a curious look. “Wait, how did _you_ figure out who I was?”

Eames smirks. “I didn’t become a forger based on _acting_ alone. You’re not the only person who did his research right after the Blake job.”

Arthur stops playing with his glass, and looks at Eames with a serious expression. “Eames, please don’t take this the wrong way, but- “ he pauses, uncertainty evident in his voice, “I don’t make it a habit to sleep with the people I work with. Well, at least not while we’re on the job.”

His words are like cold water in Eames’ face, drowning the hope that he had of them pursuing something other than just a quick shag.

Except that Eames himself usually holds firm by the same principles. That’s why he’s been able to survive this long in the dreamshare, while his other colleagues had succumbed to their emotions in the dream, drawing out the wraiths of their failed relationships.

“Alright,” Eames says cheerfully. “Tomorrow we begin afresh!” He eyes the shopping bag on the stool next to Arthur, which contained the corset and frills Arthur had been wearing. “Of course, if you turn up wearing this tomorrow, that promise may prove to be a little hard to keep.” He winks at Arthur. “Especially if you plan on showing all of us those very, _very_ , gorgeous legs of yours.”

The sudden blush on Arthur’s cheeks is unexpected but rewarding.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur snaps, reminding him of the same Arthur whom he had spent weeks arguing with on the phone. 

However, instead of being annoyed, Eames grins back. The scowl on Arthur's face only serves to make him look even more endearing.

It seems that working with Arthur, this time around, will be quite entertaining indeed.

 

  
**French to English Translations:**

  1. Please welcome to the stage, Mademoiselle Rose de Velours! **^**
  2. Release me immediately! **^**
  3. Playing hard to get? I like that. **^**
  4. We are all gentlemen here. **^**
  5. Are you alright? **^**



**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing, just playing in the sandbox. The characters belong to Christopher Nolan. The title is taken from Edith Piaf’s ‘ _T'es Beau, Tu Sais_ ’, translated as ‘You're Beautiful, It's True’.


End file.
